


Crisis of Confidence

by CommonNonsense



Series: Ficlets [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Sherlock's self-esteem is surprisingly delicate, as far as I'm concerned anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:32:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is normally all bravado and confidence, but sometimes, he's knocked off his feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crisis of Confidence

Sherlock has had crises of self-esteem. More than once, in fact.

For a man who relies on ego and sheer bravado to get him into crime scenes and labs, whose confidence overran into arrogance years ago and never receded, his self-esteem can be surprisingly fragile. The ego relies on praise and the normally unshakeable knowledge that he is the brightest and sharpest thing within a given radius at any moment, which all comes crumbling down the moment he finds something he cannot solve—and not something that presents an interesting and consuming puzzle, but something that he simply fails to grasp in time.

He’s doubted himself before—there’s always something, after all—but it’s different when it manifests. It’s a black miasma, slowly pervading and rolling in like choking fog, until he’s left with nothing but questioning and doubt and the irrational fear of inadequacy, threatening to make him sick and leaving him feeling incapable of basic function.

This time, Sherlock is left to slap nicotine patches on his arm (complete useless in their dosage, but this is not worth the effort obtaining morphine would be) as he curls on the couch, his back a feeble wall between him and the rest of the world. He draws his knees to his chest and tucks his arms against himself, screwing his eyes shut, as though shutting his eyes and making himself smaller will force the thoughts from his head. It’s childish, but that has never stopped him before, and he can pretend there’s some modicum of relief to be found in hiding.

His mind is racing, and it feels like there’s a pressure in his skull and a buzzing in the bone, like something is suffocating his thought process. He can’t _think_ , and it’s like pounding on a brick wall and expecting to break through, or swimming through treacle and slowly before he ever reaches the edge, and he _can’t do this, he can’t, he’s an idiot a moron how could he have even thought he could solve this case when he can’t even_ think _straight even the Yard is more competent than he is now he’ll have to quit he can’t even think—_

Sherlock doesn’t hear the approach of his flatmate until the door to the flat clicks shut. He immediately tenses. Keeping his breathing even and steady is a monumental effort. John will not notice. John doesn’t notice anything. ( _But he notices more than Sherlock was even capable of this mornin_ g.) John wasn’t even supposed to be home for another three hours, which would have been enough had Sherlock actually properly deduced the time John would return.

“’Lo,” John says, tired but cheerful as he shucks his jacket. “Got off the surgery a bit early today—Sarah said she owed me for last week.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. He hopes John will leave and simultaneously wishes John could magic the damned mood away.

There’s a pause. “You alright?” John asks, voice softening.

“Fine.” It’s a pathetic attempt at a lie.

John shifts. “Is it about the case yesterday?”

The lack of response is just as good as an answer. Sherlock berates himself mentally for not coming up with a better excuse.

The couch gives a creak as John perches himself on the arm closest to Sherlock’s head. There’s silence, then a soft sigh of, “Oh, Sherlock,” and callused fingertips delicately brushing the curls from his brow. Sherlock swears even more bitterly and shies away from the touch, even as he aches to lean into it.

John gives another sigh. “Come on, budge up,” he says, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair once more before standing. For a moment, Sherlock considers being spiteful and remaining, but eventually he gives in to the desire for John to stay and pushes himself up into a slouched, but upright, position. John sits himself in the vacated space, then draws Sherlock into his arms before Sherlock can say a word. His instinctive protest dies in his throat, and he finally surrenders and rests against John’s chest. John’s heartbeat thumps steadily, reassuringly, under his ear.

Thin lips press a kiss to his hair and linger. Sherlock is grateful that John cannot easily see his face from this angle; he already regrets letting John see him in this state.

But John does not judge—only shifts so he can hold Sherlock tighter, breathing softly, rustling Sherlock’s curls with each exhale.

“One case does not make you a failure, Sherlock,” he says, and then is silent. He is not a genius with words and refuses to waste time with useless platitudes, and relies on what little he can offer as a lover to reassure.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, feeling the thick fog recede slightly in his mind—only an inch, but an inch will eventually turn into a mile. He wraps an arm around John’s middle and noses against the side of his neck, surrendering completely.

They sit that way for half an hour, then an hour, silent but for the rustles of clothing and huffs of breath, the occasional tiny scrape of fingernails up a spine and the soft noise of kisses on skin. The miasma of Sherlock’s angry self-deprecation dissipates slowly, soothed away by John’s stoic reassurance that, to him at least, Sherlock is every bit as brilliant as he has ever been and will continue to be.

Being brilliant to one man does not solve every problem, but, for now, Sherlock thinks it’s enough.


End file.
